


Court Disaster

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is more fluid as a human than Dean can ever remember him being as an angel, like his body is his now and not just something he had to shove himself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Court Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere in the 5:4 'verse, fallen!Castiel.

Storms roll through in heavily erratic bursts, thunder rumbling and lightning crackling and each silvery streak across the sky has Castiel flinching. The power is out and the curtains drawn wide, the lightning flashes and the orangey-yellow flame of a hurricane lamp are painting Castiel's haunted profile. He's a hunched silhouette against the front-room window, knees drawn up close to his chest and raggedy trench coat draped over his slumped shoulders.

Dean props himself up on his elbow, kicking negligently at the sleeping bag. "Cas," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep and whiskey. "Close the drapes or come away from the window."

He doesn't startle at the sudden sound of Dean's voice, but another crash of thunder makes him twitch. Castiel tugs the thin blanket over his knees up to his chest. "Why?" he asks, gaze still fixed and far-off through the dusty glass.

Dean's eyes are desert-dry and he rubs first one, then the other, with the heel of his free hand. It blurs his vision so that Castiel is a haze, shimmery lines of him in the dim glow of the lamp. It's how Dean's come to see him, time and time again, just this vague man where once he was large and immediate and challenging. It aches in some indistinct, bittersweet way to see the angel diminished to this, but really Dean just hates himself for the satisfaction it gives him.

"The storms make you tetchy. You're practically vibrating, man," Dean mumbles, voice still scratchy as the words trip past his dry throat, dry lips. He blinks his vision clear again, lashes shuttering and just barely catching the tail end of another lightning streak, another jumpy twitch on Castiel's shoulders.

"I don't know what 'tetchy' means," Cas responds and _his_ voice is clear and cool as a breeze. Even mortal and broken, there are some things that Castiel still does perfectly. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it's not good. Is it your intention to insult me?"

Dean winces in irritation and pushes himself into a full sit, shoving the sleeping bag down his hips where it bunches. The sudden movement has his joints popping in quick succession, a machine gun blast of low-grade aches that ratchet up his spine. The hardwood beneath him is cold and unforgiving, familiar.

"Always so fucking defensive," Dean says, and it's more a complaint that he's making to himself, but Castiel hears him and shoots a dark look his way. That look, another thing that's become familiar. "Are you cold?" he asks, gentler, quiet and peaceable. 'Let's not fight', his tone says, even if his words will never quite get there.

"Of course I'm cold. Am I not always cold?"

Castiel has taken up the habit of asking rhetorical questions and he's even got that bland, sardonic tone down pat. It never fails to make Dean feel like a stupid asshole, grasping at straws, boxing with shadows, trying every little thing he can to make it the slightest bit easier on the angel that saved him and fell for him. Failing, always failing.

"Want my sleeping bag? It's pretty cozy," Dean offers.

Castiel stares silently at him and his eyes are too heavily shadowed to make out, but Dean can feel them, feel the blue of them. He hadn't known you could _feel_ a color until he'd met Castiel, but he thinks if he had met him blind, Dean would have known that Castiel's eyes were that scary shade of blue.

After a long moment of staring, and no that's not a habit Castiel's given up, he jerks his head away, gazes back out the window and into the black of the night. Rain is falling and Dean can hear it pinging off of the rusted cars in the junkyard. It blends beautifully with the sounds of the old house around them, the creaks and groans of old wood, the fluttery shift of paper where Bobby's still working in the next room over.

"If you wish to switch spots with me, you need only say it. I'm not above sleeping on the floor, Dean," Castiel grumbles and tucks deeper into his blanket, fighting off another shiver.

"Damn it, Cas," Dean hisses, anger sparking and grating at his nerves. "I'm not trying to scam the couch from you. I just thought you'd be warmer with the sleeping bag is all."

Castiel tosses his blanket off his legs and unfolds himself from his tightly scrunched position. He does it all so quickly and smoothly, one moment sitting, then the next standing. Castiel is more fluid as a human than Dean can ever remember him being as an angel, like his body is his now and not just something he had to shove himself into. Dean could give him a new vessel, something else to shove against, get him all awkward and stilted once more. He thinks he'd like to, like to see Cas stutter for him once again.

"No, I think perhaps it is better for you to take the couch," Castiel tells him, feet away from him, but still hovering ominously. Even if he's lanky and short and kind of delicate looking, he manages to make Dean feel threatened at least twelve times a day. "Your knee is still troubling you."

"I don't _want_ the fucking couch." If he sounds childish and petulant, Dean figures that Castiel is used to it by now.

The hurricane flame is behind Castiel now, it lights him from behind, turns him to a black mass of shadow and Dean can see how he tightens his hands into fists.

"Well, _I_ want the fucking sleeping bag. Are you going to retract your offer now?" Castiel argues, actually cusses at him. Dean smirks and considers it a point in his column, always keeping score when it comes to Castiel.

"I'm not _retracting_ anything," he says and reaches down to unzip the sleeping bag. The zipper sticks a couple of times on the way, but Dean yanks it down, twists his body onto its side and motions grandly at the open flap. "If you want the fucking sleeping bag then come here and get in. Sharing is caring, Cas."

It's all silence for a second or two and Dean can feel that blue again, on him, staring at him. "I'm not weak, Dean," Castiel finally says, whisper quiet, like he's telling a secret. "Why do you insist on coddling me?"

All of Dean's anger, like every good friend, just sputters out and dies. He tilts his head up with a sigh and closes his eyes, falls back down on his elbow. "I'm not coddling you, Cas. I'm tired and you're cold and we both need some sleep. So, will you _please_ just get in?"

Dean's not even sure why he's being so insistent anymore. He's never sure how his arguments with Castiel start, only knows that it's him who has to finish them. Angels aren't big on diplomacy and Castiel is no exception, too damn busy being hardheaded and beautiful to see the other side. Dean's trying to teach him about shades of gray, but he figures he's the wrong guy for that job. Sam could probably do it, but the chance to board that ship sailed long ago. Now there's just him.

After another moment's consideration, Castiel sighs and comes forward. It's an awkward dance, Castiel carefully wrangling himself in next to Dean, hips and knees knocking, every point of contact like a brand to Dean's skin through the layers of their sweats. Castiel's feet tuck in first, then his body slides and shimmies deeper in, thighs warm against Dean's, arms folded between their chests like he's warding off further contact. Once he's done, two men squeezed together in a one-man sleeping bag, Dean reaches around Castiel's waist and it feels too much like a hug while he fights the zipper back up.

Dean won this round, but his victory feels too much like torture. They're pressed front to front, sharing each other's breath and suddenly so warm that Dean could melt. Sweat prickles on his thighs where they're flush with Castiel and he comes to the alarming realization that he's already half-hard and only likely to get harder.

"You're too used to having someone to care for," Castiel says in the narrow space between them, his breath huffing hot against Dean's neck. "You cannot replace Sam with me. I don't want you to."

Dean's got one arm folded under his head but isn't quite sure where to put his free hand. It wants to go to Castiel's waist, that seems like the right place for it, but he's not sure what kind of permission Castiel is granting him.

"If I thought of Sam the way I think of you, I'd be damned to an even lower level of Hell."

Castiel's head shifts, maybe he's nodding, but the hairs that tickle Dean's cheek are really distracting so he's not quite sure. The scent in his nose isn't what it used to be, too human, rich sweat since they're all forced to stagger their showers now, gun oil and old wood and the barest hint of lye soap. Paper, whiskey and gravel dust.

"I think I understand your innuendo," Castiel speaks again and his stubble rasps against Dean's chin. "But if there's something more that you want from me, why do you not ask for it?"

"Haven't I already taken enough from you?"

"Yes," Castiel answers, too honest by far, but his palms are flattening against Dean's chest, offering the possibility of more, impossibly more and Dean isn't sure how much the angel has left to give. "But I'm human now. Can I not expect some sort of prize for all of my sacrifices?"

Dean closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Castiel's. Their noses brush and Castiel's eyelashes flutter like the wings of butterflies. "I'm no kind of prize, Cas."

"Just give me what I want, Dean. I'm tired of never receiving any answers for all of my questions."

It doesn't seem to Dean that he has any answers, but he has pretty little lies. So, he leans in, sucks Castiel's tongue into his mouth and misdirects the best way he knows how. If the angel thinks it's anything other than greed, well, he can't say Dean didn't warn him.


End file.
